"Tell Me," "On Warm Afternoons," and "Approaching Infinity"

Tell Me

Tell me how your hours go by,
your startled hates, your cheerful dynamites
and the electric waves that carry you lost
in the versatile foam of a surreal whiteness.
Tell me how you live.
Come to me, face to face;
tell me your deceptions (mine are worse),
your grudges (I also suffer them),
and that stupid pride (I understand).
Tell me how you survive death.
You have no secrets:
the gap of emptiness (or pleasure) is the same,
the sudden madness of some living moment,
the longing that stubbornly deepens emptiness.
Tell me how you die,
how you resign -Mr. Wise-
how -Mr. Frivolous- you shine like pure fugitive,
how you end up as nothing.

On Warm Afternoons

Your whispers call me,
write the prophecies that die
on my skin. I overflow in concave,
flexible moments where everything
I have invented about you fits.

I never find the tender caravan of fans
with which you cover your body,
or the mutual days of ecstasies
in the spaces of time. The reason hides
in the shape of a bronze stone man.

My imagination peeks to protect
and avoid melting at inopportune moments
of love. This is how blood travels 
to the farthest corners of my tested sweetness,
inhabiting the limits of your lusts full of mysteries.
I escape your burning witchcraft with hands
ready to rescue old tenderness.

The swift banks of my memory
suppress drunken details. I hear
a dissertation embedded in the vases
of death, the abyss that rubs
my shortcomings on your chest

curls up and breaks the windows
of your beach. Draws snakes
with fangs that steal my hours of rest
and then stretches out on your seashore
and wallows in your love spell
like cushioned silence of parsley.

Approaching Infinity

I am not the fragile child
who thought nothingness

would one morning appear
to become nothingness.

I am not that baby boy
in whose arms reigned

motionless, lonely, silent arms.

Flight is all my soul needs
to feel your sorrow.